I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a more catchy and disgustingly composed collection of tracks in my life. Every track on goddexx is so wet and chaotic and, yet, there are parts of Galen Tipton’s songs that get stuck in my head for days. Fragments of tracks pass through whatever else I might be listening to; a gross glittering oil seeps into my resting brain waves to the point that I have no choice but to throw on the goddexx (deluxe edition) for the second or third time that day. Like Lauren Bousfield’s Palimpsest, the crashing electronic mess becomes a rhythmic meditation that I can lose myself in - voices on top of other voices, raised a few octaves, crushed and spit back out, too fast to comprehend; a music box chimes, and brings me back to clarity; a symphony of surreal choirs and flutes and strings lifts everything up, higher than you thought was even possible, always adding more layers. But then it breaks down and the chaos of voices stabilizes into deep base, and space, and I suddenly realize I’ve been banging my head hard enough to make myself dizzy. That’s what it’s like to listen to Galen Tipton.
The artwork for goddexx, which is how I found the album in the first place, is wild. It reminds me of the A.I. generated artwork that was being passed around for a while on Twitter, where the AI was fed a number of famous paintings, took them in, processed them all at once, and then created a gross and unsettling image - not quite right, not quite something tangible, but still somehow packed with the emotion of all the great source material. By Sam Rolfes, the goddexx cover is an ethereal being against a pastel cloudscape. Grey and green and pink and black, the body of the being is graceful (but also, in some ways, coming apart). It holds out in front of it a smaller, slightly more recognizable form, which has a pink bow and is heavily caked in makeup. As if presenting a child as it’s own face, as part of itself, but still holding the thing at a distance. There are swords, and a bulbous clown nose, and stubby fingers on swollen ball-hands. But it’s pastel. It’s shiny, in places. Why does it feel so gross?
While pitching this EP to a friend recently, I said that the cover art is an emotional replica of the music. It’s chaotic and beautiful and disturbing and otherworldly. It’s part rave and part glitch and part symphonic grace. The image is heavy with low frequency, but at the same time there’s a computer music quality to the visual and sonic atmosphere. The stereo mix is intoxicating. Every new track expands out and pulls in, like a low resolution screensaver of the ocean, jittering all around you. It’s transporting.
With seven original tracks and three remixes, the deluxe edition is just long enough to feel like a complete journey. The sound design is deeply consistent. For something so chaotic, it’s a little surprising how the tone of the original tracks flow so well into each other and still, somehow, remain distinct. I could see how this album would be grating for some people (there’s a lot of uncomfortable glitching), but for me the tonal consistency and the repetition of distinct elements (like the music box chimes or the flutes) tether the whole thing to a world designed solely for goddexx. The only song that takes me out of the flow slightly is “pixie ring,” which features Diana Starshine, N. Hell, and Junior Astronaut, because it has a very clear vocal section. For the first time, after about 20 minutes of highly processed, stuttered vocal segments, a voice appears. Upon multiple listens, though, this break is kind of welcome. It signals its own movement: we’re getting closer to the end. “elf fetish,” which is the next (and final) original track, feels more somber because of this change, where something like “courageous grieving” or “girl dick” would have felt too abrasive or chaotic to end on.
For example, the Seth Graham remix of “girl dick” takes an atmospheric and moody approach to the otherwise very rhythmic and dramatic song - turning it into something closer to a soundtrack - wherein the samples are tied to an emotional movement rather than a driving rhythm. While these re-interpretations are interesting, and shine light on the depth and versatility of the sound design that went into goddexx, it is very clear that the EP came to an end when “elf fetish” was finished.
In an interview with Paste Magazine, Tipton said writing goddexx “was imagining myself as this type of [shonen anime/manga] character, able to take on anything from internal struggles to social constructs that want me and others like me dead.” I feel this imbues the sound design with triumphant defiance. Many times throughout the album, I felt like a struggle was finally breaking into something comprehendible, something safer, and lighter, and more understandable. To read that this EP was written in a time of great stress in Tipton’s life is unfortunate, and something I wish she never had to experience. But the emotion comes through. It bleeds pink and purple and orange and dark heavy liquid onto the catchy, rave-like elements and makes them punch harder. Often when I think of cathartic music, my mind immediately gravitates towards the raw, traditionally heavy, guitar-based, drop-A-tuned metal. Or sad shit like Lingua Ignota or Miserable or Our Lady. But goddexx fits this catharsis to its own tuning. A brighter and catchier mess. “That sometime[s] healing is ugly and can happen at a much slower pace than you want,” Tipton says, when asked what people should take away from this release. “That it's just as important to [lose] yourself and mosh in the club as it is to dance.”
Galen Tipton has been releasing music, at least on Bandcamp, since 2016. goddexx, for my money, is her best work to date and is on heavy rotation for all the reasons I’ve mentioned in this review. The tonal consistency and the sound design is just on a different level. It’s so good. She also releases music under the moniker Recovery Girl. goddexx (deluxe edition) is available now through unseelie records.